


Web Shootin'

by DevilOfWire



Series: Suits and Stupidity [3]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Body Worship, Bottom Peter Parker, Dirty Talk, Fanart, Hand Jobs, Hero Worship, Humor, Latex, Leather, M/M, NSFW Art, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Smut, Spandex, Top Wade Wilson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:56:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29791554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilOfWire/pseuds/DevilOfWire
Summary: Deadpool’s taken to simply watching Spider-Man do all that web-swinging and crime-fighting work, both so he might just maybe decrease his headcount, and so he can drink away the days with ease. But watching Peter trapeze through the air with such grace, such speed… he just might be starting to get a little jealous, yeah.And horny. Maybe just a little bit.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Series: Suits and Stupidity [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956046
Kudos: 27





	Web Shootin'

**Author's Note:**

> **IF YOU ARE UNDER 18 DO _NOT_ READ.**
> 
> Heyyo! I made this because I got a couple requests to write more Spideypool, so, here it is! I feel a little rusty not having written a one-shot in quite a bit, but I hope you lot shall enjoy anyway! Also, there’s a bonus NSFW drawing at the end, because I thought it might be fun or something idk lol, so watch out for that, hehe!

“It’s no problem, really, ma’am! It’s just what I’ve got to do, with the powers I’ve been given,” Spider-Man himself, in the flesh, winks with an invisible smirk, before whisking himself away to the dark skies above once again.

Likely never to be seen again by the incredulous women, men, and children he’d just saved from being caught up in the crossfire of the two largest rival gangs in NYC—the battle lost before it had even begun, as the web-slinging, mask-wearing, unanimous hero of the metropolis knocked as many of thugs on both sides unconscious as he spun them a silken cocoon to imprison them until the timely arrival of the authorities.

The crowd looks on with stunned awe for a moment, and then begins that sort of cheering that normally only occurs in a stadium when one’s preferred team has just scored a goal. Clapping and shouting praises for a man they had no idea the true identity of—but perhaps that made him all the more the ideal hero for boys, girls, and adults alike to worship like some sort of minor god.

Their hoots and hollers can be heard well up upon the urban fire escape where a certain man looked onward, chuckling to himself as though partially amused, partially pitiful toward the smiling faces unaware of his voyeurism.

He continues shaking his head even as the rusted metal of the structure all around him shutters violently with a sudden impact, merely taking a swig of his beer before he mutters aloud with wild one-handed gestures, “It’s like you rehearse it, y’know? Just the right line, perfect timing—friendly, but keeping some necessary distance, too. Wouldn’t want them thinking you’re actually just another human, like them, after all.”

“What are you even talking about?” the “real” hero scoffs, snapping off the web connecting him to the building like one might flex their finger, reflexive, without even really having to think about it at all.

The similarly masked—but otherwise strikingly different—hero known as Deadpool leans back from the railing with a grin still plastered dumbly to his face, not even looking as he tossed the empty brown bottle stories below into some dumpster or something.

Spider-Man rolls his eyes at the drunken carelessness for the city he spent day and night defending, but there was some hint of light-heartedness in the reaction, one that even in his impaired state his partner spotted with eagle vision.

Because, after all, after entire years of half-heartedly hesitant alliance between the two of them, he was no longer the fabled “Spider-Man” to this Deadpool, but simply, “Peter!”

“What is it, Wade?” the younger man asks in a voice that made no effort to hide his exhaustion, both real and exaggerated.

Wade leans with his hip upon the railing, metal of a belt or a gun or something similar clinking against it as a raised brow and creased smirk lets Peter know he was in for some real, aggravating mischief now. “I was just thinkin’ how we gotta get home now, right?”

“Sure,” Wade grins at the positive response, but Peter was quick to correct and crush those hopes right to dust, “I have to get home, and so do you. Separately.”

“Aww, why you gotta be that way sometimes?” Wade frowns like a sad puppy dog, the expression exaggerated enough to be easily visible through the mask, but he whimpers just to make sure Peter really gets the impression.

“What, you mean why do I not put up with your drunken flirtations sometimes? Well, it’s because sometimes, I’m actually in the right state of mind to realize just how ridiculous you are, and how I really should just stop listening to you most of the time.”

“... But does that have to be one of those times?”

Peter sighs in exasperation, palm slapping against the front of his mask as he shut his eyes tight. In the resulting darkness and silence, he weighs his options.

On the one hand, he knows Wade was just being a drunk, irritating bastard who he really ought to just shove in a cab toward some hotel with an excuse that he was just cosplaying, seeing as he had done nothing but trail after Peter the entire day of typical crime-fighting and web-slinging, making increasingly condescending and philosophical remarks about the Spider-Man’s apparent cult-like status, drink after God damn drink, adding absolutely nothing of value but for the headache he now seemed to have.

But on the other hand, he knows that the headache was more likely the result of that entire day of typical crime-fighting and web-slinging than it was actually from Wade himself, as were all the bruises and cuts, aches and pains. And he knew that, although he’d never admit it aloud—and _especially_ not to Wade himself—he really would rather have a useless onlooker somewhere upon the roofs and balconies—watching over him in more of a literal than figurative sense, sure—than to be left all alone in his thoughts and hidden feelings after the glory of a victory was over.

In fact, over the years since he had begrudgingly started to work with the loose cannon of a superhero, Wade had slowly but surely transformed from a mere pain in his side to perhaps the most reliable and most appreciated part of his day. It sounded utterly ridiculous, even to him as he stood there with a hand to his face and the high winds making him shiver in the thin latex of the suit, but he knew, deep down, that it was true.

Some days Wade aided him directly as Deadpool—loved by some, hated by probably more—but even on days like this, where he did nothing directly and just drank his woes and worries away, he was still just nice to have around. A person who knew Peter perhaps most intimately of any in the entire world, had heard his darkest secrets and been with him through thick and thin the past few years, through some of the lowest points of Peter’s life.

And yet he still stayed right by his side, even knowing the other half of the hero so many would prefer to stay blissfully ignorant of: the emotional, real, human half.

And, after all, you don’t usually sleep with someone you don’t like at least a little bit. So there was that, too.

Peter finally slides his hand down his face enough to open one eye again, and partially muffled against his own palm, whispers, “Fine. You can stay the night at my place.”

“Yes!”

“But you’re getting there by yourself.”

“No!”

Peter then just has to stand by and watch as an over-dramatic Wade Wilson drops to his knees, close-eyed and clasping his hands together in a display so shameful Peter knows not even the lowliest of criminals would stoop so low over their own, genuine lives.

“Please, please, pretty please, Peter, you can’t just expect me to get all the way to your place all on my own! I don’t even remember the address, let alone how I could even begin to get down from here to walk there!”

“Oh, don’t act like you’re completely helpless just because you’re drunk. You could probably jump off the railing and land on the cement and be relatively fine, and then you could hail a cab if you’re really too lazy to just run. And don’t you dare pretend you could ever forget my address, I bet at this point you know it better than your own phone number.”

“Well, you got that last part right, at least,” Wade slurs with a playful wink, not helping his case at all as Peter shakes his head and begins to aim his hand in that trademark gesture toward a distant skyscraper.

“No, wait!” Wade yells, his inhuman reactions allowing him to snatch Peter by the wrist just in time to force the spiralling thread of steel-strong silk to miss its trajectory by a long shot, sticking to a trash can or something judging by the metallic scraping sound, before Peter promptly breaks the connection with a flick of the wrist, looking back to the other man with what would probably be fire behind those eyes—if they weren’t completely obscured by black and white fabric, of course.

“What?” Peter asks, in one short, tense breath, that lets Wade know he probably shouldn’t mess around too too much with his answer.

“I want to ride piggy-back on you while you do that web swinging thing from building to building.”

Peter blinks. Just letting those words really soak in.

“You want... to ride “piggy-back” on me, while I do the “web swinging thing”..?”

“Yeah,” Wade tries for a smile, optimistic but not so much as to come off drunkenly eager or anything, either. “I know it probably sounds pretty stupid, but I’ve always wanted to do it.”

“Have you?” Peter asks, squinting in either suspicion or genuine confusion, to which he receives only a confident nod. “So all those times you just stood there, watching me, you thought about being able to ride along with me?” Another stupid nod.

Peter takes a step back, literally and metaphorically, as it’s his turn to laugh a little at just how ludicrous the request is. “I mean, how would that even work? Sure, sometimes I swing away in the nick of time to save someone, but usually they’re in my arms for just a few seconds—not a two hundred pound weight clinging to my freaking back! Gosh, you really-you really are something, you know that?”

“Somewhere around thirty years and counting,” Wade replies with a wink and some finger guns. Typical, nonsensical Wade.

Peter takes in a deep breath, and on the exhale, looks the other man right in the eyes—or about where they would be, anyway. “You really want to try this that bad, even knowing that if it goes even the slightest bit wrong, it means falling dozens of stories, potentially even to our deaths?”

Wade pauses, as though to consider it, but it’s obvious with the smirk and the excited, “Yep!” that he really didn’t think much at all.

Peter groans, hiding his face with one hand as the other works entirely on muscle memory to blindly tether to some building entire blocks away.

But Wade notes with exponentially increasing hope, that the web-swinger doesn’t just immediately jump ship, like he probably should. And as Peter just stands there, head down and shaking side to side at his own weak will towards a man he loathed not too long ago for so-called creative differences in the—ahem—“execution” of saving the day, Wade claps his hands and bounces on his feet like some giddy little kid about to go on their favourite ride at a theme park.

In a way, it really was a ride, as he shuffles quickly behind the more lithe figure and wraps his arms around his waist, leaning forward in that embarrassing, clingy way Wade likes to do sometimes. Peter just lets out another quick huff of exasperation, as the scent of cheap alcohol washes over him. Bastard really was hammered, and if the scent and speech didn’t make it obvious, the way he drapes over Peter’s body like a half-conscious oaf confirms it.

Peter tries not to think too much about just how heavy Wade really feels pressed against him like this, forcing his slighter form to lean against the railing creaking with all the pressure, really giving Peter something to be anxious about, so many dizzying flights up, and they weren’t even in the damn air yet!

Again, Peter tries not to think about that all too much, nor how humiliating it would be if some tenant or pedestrian might spot him like this somehow, and surprises Wade out of mumbling praises and expressions of intense gratitude by thin-gloved hands abruptly pressing against his still coiled around Peter’s stomach.

“If you want your flight to last more than a few seconds, you might want to hold me tighter than that,” he huffs, clearly trying to go for snarky badass fearless action figure, but the slight tremor of apprehension in his voice makes Wade go wide-eyed, and then smirk, as he does just that, turning his loose hold into a more apt constriction that reassures Peter as much as it unnerves him for entirely different reasons.

“Thank you, my oh-so wonderful saviour,” he purrs a little too close to the nape of Peter’s neck, sending shivers down his spine that he tries desperately to hide. Fucking bastard.

But Peter finds nothing hides whatever short-comings and self-doubts as much as the cool of the wind rushing past his ears, emptying his mind as much as it seemed to focus it on the real, important matters at hand. And so he takes one last glance towards Wade’s all-too-peaceful expression snuggling against his shoulder, and then pulls the muscles of his right hand taut.

“Holy shit!” comes the immediate shout directly into his ear, as Wade’s shocked back to high alert like a bucket of cold water as a good morning wake up call, going from zero to one-hundred in a matter of milliseconds.

Peter’s legs make it effortlessly over the railing as the rest of him pulls toward wherever that connecting bit of web is, as natural as walking to him, at this point. Wade? Not so much. Those couple of bruises will probably last a good hour, but his seething pain is quickly forgotten as all the feelings of clinging to a superhero somehow defying gravity to propel himself at speeds surely unsafe for normal bodies toward a staggering tower of reflective glass.

He panics like most of the people suddenly scooped up and accelerated to speeds comparable to some forms of air travel, knowing there was only one thing keeping him from falling to the ground directly below, where people truly did look more like ants, and he’d probably look like a bug splat.

His arms tighten like a vice around Peter’s already constricted waist, forcing some breath from his lungs, but it’s nothing that Peter hasn’t experienced dozens of times before. Still, as Wade starts shouting and pointing at the building like Peter would ever actually be so brain dead as to slam right into it, he must admit he expected maybe a little more from a fellow mutant who regularly partook in activities so depraved and repugnant Peter could even begin to conceive of them.

But perhaps he was letting himself get carried away with the assumptions, because it seems that just as quickly as he was freaking out and screaming like your average citizen, Wade gets over his fears in record time. Perhaps too foolhardy for such a concept as self-preservation, or just too stupid, the next time Peter casts a quick glance over his shoulder, Wade’s grinning like a mad man.

Seriously, like a. Mad. Man.

And now, as the wind ripples through the thin fabric of his own costume, guns and holsters and various other weapons and things shaking with the force of the air as much as the g-forces of being swung building to building in a terrifying, exhilarating pace, Wade really thinks he gets it.

Oh, it’s awful. Every time he looks down to see just how small the cars and the trees and even the God damn buildings are, he gets vertigo enough to acidify his stomach and cross his eyes with terror, that horror only increasing all that much more as his hands get clammy around the only connecting point between him and falling so many stories to his inevitable death.

But on the other hand, when he closes his eyes—or, better yet, focuses on the surrounding buildings, or, even better! Peter himself right next to him, with that focused, confident expression upon his obscured face—it’s awesome. Almost better than any amount of alcohol, than brawling or shooting or maybe even sex itself!

Well, maybe not, but then again...

“Doing alright?” Peter casts his voice loudly over the sound of the wind, knowing they’re already halfway to their destination, as without the bottle-necked traffic of NYC its streets proved quite efficient, for once.

“Uh-huh,” he can just barely hear. And the lack of volume or enthusiasm from such a normally enthusiastic person might typically concern Peter for fear that his temporary passenger might be about to pass out from lack of oxygen or out of sheer fear, but it was the sing-songy note to it, and, well, just Wade in general that made Peter concerned for entirely different reasons.

And as those hands wrapped so tight around his waist began to slither down his abdomen with absolutely shameless abandon, that sealed the deal.

“What’re y-”

“Sh, sh, sh,” Wade hushes into his ear, just loud enough over the wind that was, by the way, still fucking rushing past them as they were higher than most birds flew over a city populated by literal millions.

Wade was as persistent as he was utterly idiotic, but those seem to go hand in hand with him, after all, as instead of doing the normal human thing and just moving away to play it off as the joke that it should remain as, he begins creeping them only lower. And lower. And oh God.

“I’m in the fucking air,” Peter tries to reason with him, making his point with another well-timed shot that not only continues their trajectory down the eight-lane gap between the towering buildings, but prevented them from colliding with the previous one as he broke the connection just in time.

Just in time. That was vitally important. It might not seem like it aft first, but the timing of his shots were just as important as the actual aiming of them: missing the dim glass of a tremendous apartment complex for the empty air just beside it very well as deadly as miscalculating the shot by as little as half a second, for by then he could be well past the point where the web would continue his smooth travel between the skyscrapers.

It was a precise act. Deadly crucial, literally life or death in his hands every time he swung from the web. Peter knows it well, taking as much care with the simple act of his unique method of transportation as he did everything else when it came to his powers.

But Wade? He didn’t give a fuck. And of course he didn’t. This is the guy who makes jokes with dead bodies because he claims he simply can’t understand the concept of death or something, and thinks of innocent casualties as a necessary evil. Morally grey at best, he preferred to live life as fast and as hard as possible.

Emphasis on the hard, in this case, as Wade snickers to himself over Peter’s whiny flustering, “Well, it seems that Spider-Man Jr. here isn’t complaining half as much as you! And, y’know, just between us two superheroes, I think we can both admit to that post-glory phenomena that so commonly happens, right?”

“What the hell are you talking about?! Stop messing around before you get us both killed!” Peter yells hoarsely back, finding it growing increasingly harder to focus on the all-important task before him as more of that precious blood flow starts heading south, much to his ever-mounting embarrassment.

“Oh, we’ll be fine! I’m sure you think about jerking off plenty of times while you’re up here, coming home after a long day’s hard work, isn’t that right?” Wade laughs somewhere between maniacal lunatic and horny baritone, and perhaps over everything else, Peter is most ashamed of all that that somehow turns him on even more.

“No, Wade, listen-”

“No, you listen, Peter,” Wade says with a grin against his ear, as one arm still strongly clings to him, the other hand dipping lower to now palm directly over the most definite, most obvious erection outlined tight and shiny in its little spandex prison, “you know what I mean. Post-workout boner, post-win testosterone, it just makes sense, really. Don’t act all coy like I’m not the one there when you suddenly get all horny the second you’ve got your costume safely tucked away back home.”

“B-but do you really have to start jerking me off, right f-fucking now?”

“Hey, man, you want me to stop, just swing right into your apartment. We’re almost there, aren’t we?”

Peter blinks, realizing with a hot flash of self-loathing horror that oh, yes, they were, and he hadn’t even really noticed it over the feeling of Wade’s fingers running over his straining cock throbbing against his own fucking thigh.

Just go on in, then? And this would all be over? He’d be just as Wade had said earlier, safe and sound at home, both of them preferably without their iconic suits on so even on the off, off chance that someone were to interrupt or spy on them or something, they’d just be greeted with the sight of two seemingly normal men making love, if that’s the sort of thing they were into.

At the very least, such humiliation would be one thousand times better than being caught wearing their unmistakable apparel during such an intimate interaction, but it was nothing the tired old excuse of kinky cosplay couldn’t do away with, probably.

But to be caught red-handed, swinging around the damn city on web that should be physically impossible for any real human to be able to propel from their body, a clearly costumed Deadpool upon his back as he continued whispering dirty things into his ear, all the while he jerked him off in his own beloved suit?

The tabloids would be all over that, surely, and Peter wouldn’t even have to stage it that time.

So, knowing that both of his dual lives could be swiftly ended if just one night owl tenant happened to miraculously snap a picture or a video of the two fucking like some airborne animals tend to do, Peter does the sensible thing and swings right up onto his balcony, gets a handjob or maybe some mouth action, and calls it a night.

... Okay, what actually happened was the total opposite, obviously.

Peter’s face goes a red so blazing it’s visible even under all those multi-coloured lights of the LED billboards just around them, as Wade cackles victoriously in the dark of the night, and the two of them make a near-whiplash inducing ninety degree turn away from his comfy apartment complex and toward some other less crowded street.

“I knew you were interested,” Wade laughs loudly, running his thumb all the more confidently along the surface of the tight, tight bulge in his hero-turned-ride’s singular layer of clothing. Seriously, it’s like he might as well be stark naked already, there’s so little fabric in the way that but for the colour of the actual flushed erection just beneath it, everything else would be readily visible.

Thankfully, it would be rather hard for anyone to spot such a detail unless they perhaps had some sort of highly expensive high-speed camera, and the chances of that were so astronomical it put Peter’s mind at ease. Somewhat.

He was still swinging from the ropes of web he had to concentrate so hard just to make in the first place, let alone aim and remember when exactly to pull, push, let go. Wade must really have a death wish, to be distracting practically half his brain as his arousal mounted with every teasing flick of his fingers, every rush and slightest movement.

Wade was more than enjoying the front-row show he had all to himself—just over the heads of thousands of people, that sort of all to himself. His own constant, yet unsurprising eagerness to get some action—in the other way that didn’t involve blowing someone’s head off—was embarrassingly obvious as it rubbed against Peter’s spine, his ass, between his thighs to rut against his already balls already seizing with how close he was to orgasm.

Well, it’s all Peter’s embarrassment, that is. Wade really couldn’t be more unabashed if he tried, as he just kept snickering to himself while rubbing his straining erection against his hero’s round ass, taut and grinding right back against him with the continued effort of shooting and flying upon that damn web every few seconds.

Not to mention his hand, which continues its efforts at teasing his partner at an all-too-lax pace: instead of properly stroking to finish Peter off in the likely seconds it would take, he chooses to meander, coax and tease and try his luck with his twisting, feather-light strokes along the twitching length hot and heavy within his palm.

Yes, he knows for nearly damn sure that Peter’s just one good grip upon the head of his aching cock away from climax, what with the way he’s panting and subconsciously trying to thrust into Wade’s weak grasp, full balls and tight ass twitching in that telltale way he does. Wade thinks it’s adorable, of course.

But he doesn’t want Peter to cum so soon, so easily. He wants to really milk this—pun fully intended—for all its worth. Because who knows when the next time he’ll get the opportunity to jerk his favourite tight-wearing hero while swinging precariously from building to building on a single pencil-thin thread of silk. It might very well be months, for all he knows!

So he keeps up those light touches, as he begins focusing too upon the upper halves of both their bodies—unfortunately forgotten about all too often in the heat of the moment, but just as important, in his humble opinion. So as he begins to flick his tongue against and nibble at the slender outline of Peter’s warm ear, he takes the sole arm keeping him attached and not tumbling to the cement at terminal velocity, and rubs it all the way up Peter’s smaller, but still definitely defined, abdominal muscles, all the way until he reaches his very chest.

Then he begins toying with one of Peter’s nipples, all too sensitive he knows from plenty of first-hand experience that many would probably never guess of their city’s precious saviour in red and blue. It, just like the cock in his other hand, is hard enough to clearly poke through the thin material of his suit. And just like that cock, it’s also rather fun to play with, stroking between his fingers to draw pained, breathy moans from the man desperately trying to cling to his better thinking to save them both, which is just great all in all.

“I don’t know about you, Spidey,” Wade chuckles at his own invented pet name, “but man, these pants are tight enough I think I might just pass out, y’know? What’dya say I help us both out here?”

Before Peter can even understand what Wade is implying enough to reveal it as the horrible idea that it is, suddenly there’s a growing pressure right above his cock. Tighter and tighter right at his already straining, just about-to-blow erection, until it really is painful enough he lets out a moan of pained ecstasy, just barely keeping from rolling his eyes back in pleasure to continue the strenuous duty that has him sweating nearly as much as the head-spinning arousal does.

And then, suddenly all that tension is relieved in one abrupt motion, accompanied by a loud, stretchy ripping sound, and it certainly doesn’t take a genius to figure out what just happened.

But Peter dares a look anyway, and sure e-fucking-nough, there’s a glaring gash right where his tight tights previously had stretched over his crotch, just a second ago pulled so thin and dampened by pearls of pre-cum as to be practically transparent.

“What the f-fuck?!” Peter is so shocked he manages to talk for the first time in a good while, that is, until Wade gets his hand wrapped around his bare cock, and then it all turns into garbled gibberish of a moan once again.

“I know, I know,” Wade tuts, snaking his hand away from Peter’s beautiful, pink-tipped cock to do the same over-dramatic ripping motion to his own, tougher but still suitably tear-able suit, “I could’ve just pulled our cocks out because these suits actually have separate pants and upper halves, sure. But where’s the fun in that, huh?”

“Wh-wh-”

“What? Where are you going to get it fixed? What are you going to do with it now?” Wade just teases him relentlessly, thrusting his now exposed cock between Peter’s taut muscular thighs, into the crease of his ass where his balls are partially exposed from how far the rip goes, enjoying every squeak and sound his little spider makes as he jerks his cock as much as he just plays with it, “Don’t worry about any of that, Spider-Man, I’ll figure it out. It is my responsibility, after all,” he chuckles.

“I just can’t help myself, y’know? I’ll tell you the honest truth, now,” he rumbles low into Peter’s ear between teasing kisses and nips upon the cartilage, “it’s not just piggy back rides I’ve been imagining, when I stand back and simply observe you, drinking or partaking in some other sin to keep myself busy or else I might wanna jump in there and just come out guns blazing, law be damned.

“No, I’ve thought about _this,_ too. How great you look, effortlessly flying through the air in your marvellously unique way that puts even the most graceful of birds to shame, in my opinion. Such precision, such grace, as you swing between the very buildings you take such pains to protect, day and night. Every lean muscle of yours contracting, relaxing, contracting, relaxing, over and over again, like its own spectacular show so distracting it almost keeps me from being able to stay focused on whatever brawl or scheme you might even be involved in.

“I know, I’m a weird guy. Trust me, if anyone gets that, it’s me. I;’m not so purposefully ignorant as to see that, at least. But you? I mean, how can anyone, man, woman, hero, or anything in between, not be as awe-struck by you as they are completely captivated? You’re a pure, young spirit, a better person than a good 99% of humanity, and that’s without even powers being considered into the equation. You really are the hero we all don’t deserve, but get anyway.

“And yet,” Wade groans, the continued thrusts of his pulsing cock against the other’s thigh somehow still working so damn hard to just keep them in the air, “I get to see you, like this. Me, just me, only me. When you’re moaning and writhing on a couch or a bed, leaking jizz, just about to cum. The way your back arches when you’re on the verge of orgasm, the way your thrusts start desperately meeting my hand just like they’re doing now, it’s so damn cute.

“You’re really quite the slut when you finally let yourself, you know that? I know I tell you all the time, but it seems like it’s easy for you to forget, what with the holier-than-thou show you like to put on for the public.”

Wade’s really breathing heavy against his neck now, twisting the one nipple hard enough to be tortuously glorious, fucking between Peter’s thighs as he jacks his cock off hard through the small slit he’s utterly ruined the tights just to get to, it’ll be no time at all before they’re both spending their loads right over the unknowing heads of all those poor, innocent passer-bys just below.

“But first,” Wade says over Peter’s loud, incoherent moans, seeming downright tortured as the slight fraction of his brain still in control worked overtime to keep up the constant motion of web swinging, “I’ve _really_ always wanted to do _this.”_

There’s a flicker of confusion in that last one working brain cell in Peter’s head, but it’s drowned out by the rest of his mind, brain, body and soul all chanting, driving him towards an orgasm just about to hit him like a God damn train.

And so even as Wade’s tight grip loosens to merely two fingers wrapped around the head of his cock, the pulsing of his veins, contraction of his seed-filled testicles, the taboo and overwhelming euphoria of being fucked practically in public like this, the wind still whistling around him in that way that’s always entranced him so thoroughly, the weightless but impossibly swift feeling of flying through the air as free as a bird, it was all just so out of the world and insane and downright criminal-

Pushes Peter right over the edge to perhaps the most amazing ejaculation of his entire life. Which is saying something, considering all of the unforgettable ones Wade has already subjected him to.

Wade somehow manages to chuckle even as he, too, blows his load all over Peter’s ass, thighs, and everything else, like some sort of filthy glue to really bind the two superheroes together now.

And thankfully—at least, Peter will be thankful later when he’s staring at the ceiling and forced to confront what he’d been suckered into—his own strings of creamy cum combined with his still-ongoing velocity means that all that ejaculate comes right back to collect upon his stomach, chest, just about everywhere.

Well, he’s not thankful in the moment, as the timing is perfect for him to end that utterly draining—physically and mentally—excursion directly upon the balcony of his long-awaited apartment, and all the guilt and shame and feeling of cum drying on his tattered suit hits him just as much as the Orgasm Train or whatever did.

Wade steps back on somewhat cramping legs to give Peter some much-needed space, but not before lightly slapping his hand against the tight-suit wearing tease of a twink’s ass, reminding Peter all too much of the cum now plastered against his ass. He wasn’t sure if it was better or worse that it wasn’t his own, to be honest.

But after some heaving recovery breaths and a few hazy thoughts, that when it re-enters Peter’s mind.

And his eyes snap straight to Wade, an accusatory expression covering his face as his mask is ripped right off—the kind that doesn’t require expensive mending, fortunately.

“What?” Wade asks as he removes his own before quickly throwing up his hands in a coy gesture, although still partially covered in a mixture of their damning semen.

“What did you say back there? When I came? I don’t think I really could register it at the time, but did you really say what I think you said?”

Wade pauses, a blank expression on his face a moment.

And then the biggest, stupidest grin spreads across his face, as he re-enacts the line with the unmistakable matching hand gestures: hands splayed other than the two innermost digits of middle and ring tucked securely back into the palm.

“ ‘Now you’re really shootin’ your web!’ “

After a moment of just letting that really sink in, Wade awkwardly standing there with web fingers just like Peter now realizes he was doing with his fucking dick, Peter lets out a long sigh. “You’re damn lucky I’m too tired to just push you off the railing right now.”

Wade finally puts his hands down, chuckling to himself as he takes a step toward the door to Peter’s apartment, and turns to say, “You know you love me.”

As Peter waits for him to unlock the door—because for some reason he’d made the mistake of giving him a copy of the key to his own home at some point—he takes his own few steps forward, and thoroughly surprises Wade with a sudden, sweet kiss.

“Somehow, I guess you’re right on that one,” he says as he saunters into his apartment, leaving a still-stunned Wade at the uncharacteristic sappiness of it all.

And then Peter goes on to shout across the room, “Now, will you get your ass in here so you can throw my ruined suit into the wash so you can get it fixed ASAP? A warm bath would be nice, too. I think all that oughtta pay off your stupidity, don’t you think?”

Aw, there he is. Good old Peter Parker.

“Alright, alright. But only if you let me join you for that bath, hehehe.”

Much better than Spider-Man, after all.

([Full size image](https://twitter.com/DevilOfWireNSFW/status/1368303130572689415?s=20))

**Author's Note:**

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> Thanks for reading! <3 One shots and smutty art are always fun to make, so I think I might try getting into the habit of making them with more consistency… one can only hope! Till next time, see ya! :D


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